


Clothes Make the Man

by tristesses



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Clothing Kink, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dr. Quinzel pulls some strings and plays dress-up in her favorite patient's clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 11/15/2008.

It only takes two weeks before she finally gives in to her curiosity. Well, curiosity’s one word for it; others might call it lust, fascination, obsession, or blatant stalking. Harleen calls it love. Oh yes, love; she has a myriad of experiences with love in all its forms, from pure to filthy, and she knows it when she feels it. Love. For a patient. Unprofessional, but she’s never been much for strictly following the rules.

Arkham Asylum is like a prison; they store all the patients’ belongings (the ones that aren’t weapons, at least) in a private back room that only the head of the hospital has keys to. Not like they can’t be corrupted, of course; take a look at Jonathan Crane (or Scarecrow, as he’s calling himself nowadays). Too bad he isn’t here anymore; he was one of Harleen’s favorite professors, if a little (more than a little) creepy (but she likes them that way). But this new guy’s not too bad either. He’s got familial connections to the place; he gets what goes on inside there. And he’s a little crazy to boot, which works nicely for Harleen’s purposes.

(“I’d like to get some of the Joker’s possessions to use in his therapy sessions,” she says, sounding professional, like she really has this whole psychiatrist thing down. “I think using them for some, uh, associative free-thinking exercises” – she’s bullshitting now – “will be really beneficial.”

“What were you thinking of using?” asks Arkham, bleary eyes only half-focused on her. Hitting the pipe again, maybe?

“Um, maybe some items of clothing. Simple things, really. His tie, if it’s not too much of a problem – ”

He waves his hand dismissively.

“Take the whole suit, it’s nothing. Just – sign it out. Bring it back.”

“Thank you so much, sir!” Harleen’s practically vibrating with joy.

“And Dr. Quinzel….” His voice trails off. He blinks, very slowly. “What can I do for you, Dr. Quinzel?”

“Nothing,” she says, beaming. “Everything’s absolutely fantastic.”)

It only takes her two weeks to give in.

  
**. . .**   


From the first instant she met him she knew he was different. He wasn’t like other men, even if that was obvious from his looks, long and wiry and scarred up with a disconcertingly clear (undeniably sane) gleam in his eyes. Without his makeup, nails cut short (they are, after all, weapons), hair washed and in a crew cut (it is, after all, a vulnerability), without his flashy clothes and deceptively slim knives, he should have looked smaller. Conventional wisdom says he should be deflated, scared. He was not. In fact, he filled the room from the chair where he sat, the force of his personality overwhelming, threatening despite the shackles and security guards.

“Hello,” she said, and her voice quavered. Dammit. “I’m Dr. Quinzel. I’ll be your new psychiatrist.”

He smirked at that, leg jittering. “For now.”

She blinked, unsure of what to say. Heat pooled in her stomach at the diabolical tinge in his eyes. She sat across from him, the steel table a flimsy barricade between them; she was quite sure he could snap his chains and overturn the table if he truly wanted to get at her. (Not that she’d mind too much. Nope, she wouldn’t mind at all.)

“Um, I thought – well, I’d really like to talk about your childhood, if that’s okay, Mr. J.”

“Mr. J?” He sounded a bit incredulous, and repeated it, rolling the syllables off his tongue like honeycomb. “I _like_ it, Doc. But – I _don’t_ think I’ll like talking about my childhood.”

She unconsciously leaned forward, imploring him. The power balance had already shifted. “Can you tell me why not, Mr. J?”

He sucked on the scars inside his mouth, eyeing her, considering. “Did you have a cat when you were a kid, Doc?”

Harleen was a bit taken aback, but replied, “No, I’m allergic.”

“That,” he drawled, drawing the word out and capping it with a popped T, “is just too bad.”

“Did you have one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any pets?” It’s very common for serial killers to have started their murder sprees with animals. “Ones that might have…disappeared in unusual circumstances?”

The Joker moved toward her, her only warning the clink of his chains. She stiffened in her chair, wary, but he only smirked – god, those scars are ghastly – and whispered, “I like the sound when their bones break.”

Harleen’s eyes opened wide. Her mouth parted slightly, ready to receive a kiss.

“Of course you do,” she breathed. “Whose animal was it?”

“It…depends.”

“On what?”

“On which childhood you’re asking about!” He broke into peals of laughter, high-pitched and uneven. Multiple personality disorder? Harleen wondered, but she really hoped not. That would take some of the mystery out of it.

“No, but really, Doc – ” he paused, looked at her, “what’s your first name, Doc?”

“Harleen.” The word just slipped from her lips, she honestly didn’t mean to say it. His lips curled in amusement.

“Harleen Quinzel. I’ll call you _Harley_ , or maybe – maybe Dr. Q, hmm?”

“You – you can call me what you like.” She stuttered like a schoolgirl. He noticed, and licked his lips, one of his many facial tics. She is so malleable, Harleen Quinzel, and she was his even then. It barely took him five minutes to do it.

  
**. . .**   


Harleen’s lit scented candles, a good dozen of them, flickering in their many positions around her room like sentries guarding her bed. The Joker’s suit, a little scuffed and dusted with rubble, lies on the mattress, carefully spread out. No underwear – the thought makes her flush and unconsciously lick her lips – suspenders, patchwork socks, patterned shirt, and green waistcoat with tie. Long purple jacket, trim and stylish. She’s wearing his violet leather gloves already. In fact, it’s all she’s wearing.

The rub of the leather on her skin, stroking along her hips and stomach, brushing over the ticklish places in her sides, makes her loll her head back as she stands in heels before her bed. It’s so easy to pretend – this is the way he’d hold her waist, firmly, possessively, _this_ is the way he’d tweak her nipples, roughly, utilizing those nails of his as he drags them down her soft stomach. Her skin is so delicate; it shivers in goosebumps. She leaves her room cold, like an asylum cell.

Harleen slides a gloved finger into her mouth and sucks on it lightly as she lowers herself to the bed, lying across his jacket – his smell, his sweat, is still on it. Normally she doesn’t like the scent of men, she insists her lovers wear aftershave, but this is just glorious. Like being with him, almost. She snuggles into the lining, one hand groping for his tie, slipping her head through the loop and rolling onto her back with a sigh. The curves of her calves and thighs are accentuated by her shoes, her body smooth and oiled from the bath. She makes a pretty picture; if the Joker were here, he’d laugh at her earnestness.

Right now, though, he’s only in Harleen’s mind, watching as she nestles in his jacket and shirt, tie looped haphazardly around her neck, suspenders in one gloved hand. The fabric is rough; she strokes it along her skin, across her nipple, and it stings, but her moan is one of pleasure, not pain. (In her fantasy, she is in his arms, being kissed, and _oh_ those scars pressing deliciously against her skin, the rubbing fabric of his clothes against her breasts, his thigh pressing between her legs, that devious look in his eye like he’s either going to fuck her or rip her to shreds, his fingers pinching and prodding and stroking lower _ooh_ – )

Harleen pets herself with his suspenders, the material running smoothly across the shaven skin, sending little ripples of sensation down her legs and into her gut. She tosses her head back with a little moan, and tiny stars of pain erupt on her scalp; her hair’s caught in the knot of the tie. When she reaches up to unravel it, marveling at the little jolts of pleasure-pain that result of pulling her hair harder, she ends up tightening it, quite by accident. At first. But oh, she likes it, the way the fabric caresses her neck in a tight embrace, the yank at her scalp and the flickers of lightheadedness from the strain, and as she tightens the knot –

(he’s bent her over the steel table they use for therapy sessions, one hand fisted in her hair, the other wrapping his chains around her throat, fucking her long and deep, grunting in rhythm)

– she gasps for breath and it hurts, but god now every nerve in her body is tingling, and when she rubs the suspenders hard against her wet slit – “Oh Mr. J, fuck my cunt,” she whimpers, she’s always loved dirty talk – the buckle bumps her clitoris and she squeals, or would have if more could have escaped her throat than a whine. She claps her thighs together and rolls to her side, slapping her ass with her free hand and rocking her hips against the mattress, the suspenders creating fantastic friction burning low in her groin, slipping one then two gloved fingers inside herself, panting and squirming –

(now she’s flat against a brick wall in a squalid alley, his arm crooked around her neck and squeezing, fingers pumping inside her as he hisses, “Harley, _this_ is the way – the world – ends – like _gun_ powder, _gas_ oline, ex _plo_ sions, burnin’ up – _not_ with a whimper – but with a – ”)

\- she hits climax screaming, the sound raw and forced around her self-imposed noose, and then her hands slacken and she relaxes and all goes white.

  
**. . .**   


The day before she breaks the Joker out of Arkham, she is stopped in the corridor by the bong-hitting doctor himself.

“Dr. Quinzel,” he greets her, sounding astoundingly coherent, eyes red-rimmed and inquiring. “How goes your therapy with…the Joker? It’s him you’re treating, right? Yes, it is, you asked for his clothes. Association exercises, am I right? Yes, I am. How goes it?”

She smiles at him, resplendent in her tight-fitting suit but with an odd gleam in her eye. And is that a new tie she’s wearing?

“Everything’s fine, sir,” she chirps at him, a cheerful sparrow. She adjusts the knot on her tie, pulling it a little closer to her neck, and flashes him a brilliant grin. “Just peachy.”


End file.
